The Ill Effects of Split Personality Disorder
by england-has-swag
Summary: AU. Arthur has been "suffering" in a psyche ward for what feels like forever. Either way, it's been far too long. He murdered his family in a house fire. He gets a new doctor, who finally figures out what is wrong with him. Warnings: Mature themes, mentions of gore, character death, abuse, and use of mental illness. Note: England is Arthur's persona. He is not a country.


((Author's note: People suffering from Split Personality Disorder tend to have gone through a traumatic event, or have a history of abuse. They create another persona based on other traits of their original personality being the dominant traits in the new persona. This story didn't go into much detail about Arthur's past, but he was abused by one of his uncles, who will remain nameless. You can either assume it was a character from the show, or an OC. There might be a sequel written to this, but I'm not entirely sure, so don't get your hopes up. It was an RP on Omegle, and I got the person's Tumblr information. Reviews are highly appreciated. Have a wonderful day^^))

As much as he wanted to, Arthur could no longer tell himself that everything was going to be okay. He'd lied to himself for so long. It didn't seem like it would matter if he carried on with it just a bit longer. Though, he just couldn't do it anymore. He had to stop kidding himself. His life was never going to go back to the way it was. Things didn't just work that way. It's funny how one little, tiny, overlooked detail can fuck up a person's entire life. That had happened to the Brit. For no rhyme or reason, he hadn't seen the daylight in weeks. No reason that he could comprehend, anyway. Maybe it was weeks, but it felt like so much longer. His past seemed as a different lifetime would, and that was what was making him stop the lies. Each day, he would tell himself that everything would be okay. Eventually, things would work out, and he could go back to living life as he had been before this. He was strong, proud even. He could make it through anything. Yesterday, he had stopped talking, though. He sat on the twin bed, its white sheets still smelling of the artificial cotton cleaner. He was surprised the stains had come out. He stared at the floor. It was cold beneath his bare feet. Though, he hadn't worn shoes in such a long time. He was used to it. His head turned towards the door when he heard the door handle turning.

Francis stepped into the room, wrinkling his nose slightly at the sterile smell of it. He glanced over the clipboard in his hand in the dim light afforded by the overhead lamp, pinching the hinge of his glasses between thumb and forefinger. Finally, he removed the glasses and folded them, and then slipped them into the pocket of the white lab coat he wore. He regarded the Englishman who sat on the bed, peaceful as ever. They weren't sure what was wrong with him. It wasn't like he said much. He let out a sigh through his nose. He couldn't understand how dentists had the highest suicide rate. It had to be population instead of ratio or something, because he most certainly walked out of this hospital everyday feeling more and more depressed. He rubbed his eye and took a seat at the desk.

"Good morning, Monsieur Kirkland," he said lightly, injecting more cheer into his voice than he actually had left in him. "'Ow are you today?"

Arthur had gotten used to the smell of the room. After all, he'd been in it for weeks. He looked down as he recognized the doctor. The man had been in here before. He still wasn't sure why he was here, or how he had gotten here. He still wanted to go back to his old life, even if he had lost hope of ever getting it back. He hated wearing the same hospital gown every day. He hated the pills he was taking, that made him feel detached from reality. The past few weeks had been a blur. He faintly remembered something about him apparently burning down his own house. The story had been that he'd killed his brother and parents by starting a fire. He was only seventeen. He didn't remember that night, so he had a hard time defending himself, and his case. The only constant reminders of that night were that he was here, and the ugly burn scars painting his body. One in particular covered about a third of the left side of his face. He made sure to hide it with his hair. It was awful to constantly be reminded of something that you couldn't remember. He shrugged, remaining silent.

Francis liked to think it was trauma that made Arthur this way. It sure explained things. An accident had taken his family, and he'd been the scapegoat, being that he couldn't say anything to confirm or refute the court's guess. He'd blocked the night from his mind. It was quite common. He sighed, rolling tired shoulders, eliciting cracks. He went over the sheets on the clipboard, glancing up from time to time. Same appearance, same attitude, and it seemed as though he was sticking with his decision from yesterday to stop talking. He smiled weakly at the Brit.

"So. 'Ow is ze 'ospital food?" he wondered.

Arthur continued staring at the floor. He had stopped asking questions after the first week. He'd asked common things. Why was he here, how long would he be here, what was on the clipboards, what he needed to do to get out, etc. The worst question he'd asked so far was one that nobody had even remotely responded to. It was the third day of being here, and he had turned to a nurse, and questioned, "Is my family coming to visit me?" She had stood with her mouth agape, not knowing how to respond, and quickly left his room. A few days afterward, he realized that all of his questions were just being ignored. He was almost always talked to as if he was a small child; sensitive, in a way. He shrugged again to the question. Even if he didn't like the food, it didn't matter much. He wasn't about to voice his opinion, anyway. Unfortunately, because of the suicidal patients, pens, and anything just as sharp were not allowed. He couldn't write to communicate, either. Lest he try to hurt himself.

Francis turned in the seat and faced the man, giving him a once over. He planted his feet, put his hands in his lap and hung his head in a near perfect imitation. He shrugged, paused, then shrugged again.

"I do not actually see any enjoyment in zis," he admitted, shrugging a few more times. "I mean, if I moved from side to side, I might appear to be dancing… But you are not, so…" He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together and setting his elbows on his knees. "Can we establish a system? One shrug yes, two shrugs no, or somet'ing?"

He was so tired of this. He was so tired of taking file upon file home, going over them again and again, picking through them, losing sleep over hopeless case after hopeless case… He had a good track record, which was why he was here. His superiors saw how many people he got out of the institution, how many had just needed small adjustments… Unfortunately, they were pairing him up with people who didn't have a snowball's chance. It didn't stop him from trying.

Arthur heard rushing water in his ears. He was staring at the ground still, but he started shaking, ever so slightly. He had only bottled things up for a day, but he couldn't handle this. He had tears clouding his vision. He didn't want the medication, he didn't want to be talking to this man, and he didn't want to be here. His hands were fiercely gripping the edge of the bed, tangling in the sheets. Through the blur of his tears, he could've sworn that his white knuckles almost blended into the bed sheets. He took a deep breath, and put his hands in his lap. He lightly picked at the fresh bandages around his wrists from when he'd had an accident yesterday. He didn't look at Francis as he spoke.

"I just want to see my family. Can't I just go home?" he questioned, softly. He looked over to the side to wipe his eyes carefully with the back of his hand. He almost never cried. He didn't understand why he was here, and he didn't want to be here anymore, though. It was relentless. Everything was the same, every day, and he had no sense of time, which may have been one of the worst things. There were no windows, no clocks. Just an empty white room, with a white bed, white sheets, a white nightstand, and a white hospital gown. It was all too consistent with everything that had happened beforehand.

Francis blinked in surprise, sitting back. He tilted his head, brow furrowed.

"No one told you?" he asked, his voice sounding a lot younger than he looked. He wasn't that old, really. It was a long, long story… "Monsieur Kirkland, your family 'as passed away in a fire zat you are being blamed for. You didn't know?" He wasn't quite sure what else to say. It wasn't fair keeping something like that from someone. How could they get better if they didn't even know what they were supposed to be coping with?

Arthur looked over at Francis for the first time since the other had entered the room with a harsh glare.

"W-Why won't you s-say anything?" he replied with.

It was as if he hadn't heard what the doctor had said. He was blocking it out. To him, the man had remained quiet, ignoring his question, as the others before had. Though, all his questions had been answered. Every time. It was his minds way of coping with this. It was so much better than blaming himself for everything. He went back to picking at his bandages. Eventually, he started scratching a little at the skin underneath, but as each moment passed, the scratching got less and less gentle. He eventually started bleeding, the blood covering the tips of his fingers, and getting trapped under his fingernails.

Eyes widening in horror, Francis went forward and pulled his hands apart, scowling at the man.

"Do you even listen?" he demanded. He was carefully avoiding his bloodied wrists, pressing his thumbs into the pads of his hands and his fingers covering the backs of the other man's palms. He blinked, the truth dawning on him. Maybe not the truth… But it was the best theory he'd had yet. "You do listen. You just shut out ze answers you do not wish to 'ear." He crouched, still holding his hands away from each other. "Are you listening, now?"

Arthur's eyes shifted slightly as he watched Francis, and studied him silently. He flinched slightly at the harsh tone, but made no move to try and scratch at his wrists again. He shifted a slightly so that he still had some personal space when he felt as if the doctor had gotten too close. His eyes showed hints of worry, sadness, anger, and even fear.

"I d-don't know what y-you're talking a-about," he stuttered softly. He looked down at his lap, trying to ignore that the other was right in his face. "Yes, I'm l-listening."

To him, he had been the entire time. It was as if everyone was speaking in some sort of code he didn't understand. Because he only heard what went with what his mind wanted him to hear. So much got left out, that it left him confused, and slightly frighten of this place, which he felt as though he'd resided far longer than he should've already. He had tears falling down his face again.

Francis let go of his hands and took a step back, then sat cross-legged on the floor, peering upwards.

"If you are listening, what is two plus two?" he asked, setting his elbows on his knees again. He might have something, here. There might be a chance. If he could just start with some simple questions, maybe he could go a little deeper. Not too deep, no, not yet, but he could at least scratch the surface. "What is your full name? What color is ze sky? What are ze colors of ze rainbow?"

Arthur stared at him. He didn't understand the point to the questions, but he figured that if he answered them, the man might go away sooner, or he might be on the road to getting out of this place.

"Two plus two is four," he murmured, staring at his lap. "My full name is Arthur Kirkland. The sky is blue. The colors in a rainbow are red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet." He shook his head a little, and looked at Francis. "Why will you not answer my questions? Why do I have to answer your pointless questions, while you sit idly by without even telling me the reasoning behind me being here?" he asked, his voice turning up slightly in volume as he started to get upset.

Francis sighed, running a hand through his hair, his fingers getting tangled in the ponytail at the base of his skull.

"I do answer your questions. I just did. You just do not listen to my answers. Your mind blocks zem out. I can tell you why you are 'ere. I can tell you what 'appened. I can tell you nearly everyt'ing you need to know… But you are not listening to me." He frowned deeply. "We 'ave to find a way to get you to listen. Zere 'as to be somet'ing…."

Arthur hadn't heard anything Francis had said. His gaze turned into a soft glare, and he laid down on the bed, and rolled over so that his back was facing Francis. He wasn't going to participate in this if the man was just going to continually ignore him. He started muttering softly to himself in his irritation.

"…you probably did something with them… …all of you… …it's why you're keeping me here, isn't it…? …that way I won't tell anyone what you did to my family…." He wasn't speaking loud enough to be heard clearly, but a few words could be made out. It was obvious that he was upset.

Growling in frustration, Francis stood, pacing the room, scowling.

"Cats!" he said at random, spinning on his heel to go the other way. "Alice in Wonderland! Pickles! Rubber baby buggy bumpers! She sells sea shells by the sea shore! Nothing? Nothing? Nothing, tra la la? Soup! 'Ippopotamus! Wit' a bucket of crab legs and gravy and barbie dolls!" He whirled about, crossing his arms. "'Ear zat? Any of it?"

Arthur stared at the wall. "…maybe I am losing my mind…" he muttered softly, his gaze a little less harsh. He'd heard everything. He didn't mean to be like this. He just was. The worst part was that the sentence he'd gotten in this place was deserved. He had done it. That's why he'd blocked it out. He'd murdered his family, for unknown reasons. It wasn't because he was cold-hearted. It wasn't because he was a bad person. He'd blacked out. It wasn't the first time he'd blacked out and hurt someone. It was the same with every situation, though this was the only one anyone knew about. He began scratching at his wrist again, keeping it close to his chest in an attempt to not let Francis see he was doing it.

Of course, it was easy to see his shoulder moving as he scratched. He reached around and pulled his hand up, shaking his head.

"Why do you keep scratching, Kirkland?" he asked, tilting his head. "Can you not see what you are doing to yourself? Does it not 'urt?" He raised an eyebrow, waiting for the answer. It was no wonder this case was so far in the back. This man was infuriating. Francis wondered how quickly he could be driven mad from this job.

Arthur looked up as his hand was grabbed. He stared at Francis for a minute, his mouth hanging open as if he wanted to say something. His eyes were shining with tears, and they flicked back and forth to study the other's expression. He looked at his bleeding wrist.

"I…" He blinked. "I… did that…?" he questioned softly, finally realizing what the doctor had said. He looked at his other hand. Blood was covering the tips of his fingers, and his fingernails. He stared for a moment, then looked back up at the other. "…what's wrong with me?" he asked, looking like he could break out sobbing at any moment, though he knew he wouldn't. His heart hurt.

Francis nodded in response to his question. "You did it. You do not even realize you do it?" He sighed. "You are 'ere because you forget. I am not sure why, but you do. Do you understand?" His brow furrowed, perplexed. He let out a long string of meaningless words, every now and then saying "you forget". He stopped. "Am I getting t'rough to you?" he wondered.

Arthur's stare softened to the point where he looked incredibly sad. After a few moments, he nodded. He took his hand back.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I… I think I did something bad…" he admitted, staring at the wall. It was on the tip of his tongue… The edge of his mind. There was no way to deny this anymore. In some way, maybe in his reawakening subconscious, he knew that his family was dead. His mother, his father, his brother. Dead. …and he knew that he had killed them.

"O-Oh… Oh Lord…" He put his face in his hands, shaking slightly as he tried to deny the conclusion he was coming to.

"Kirkland?" he asked gently, placed a steady hand on his shoulder. "What is it?"

He decided that maybe now would be a good time to stop talking. It looked like the patient had finally clued into something… He waited patiently for him to come to terms with whatever it was he was thinking about. He perched on the edge of the bed, tired of standing the way he had been.

"I… I… They're gone, aren't they? A-All of them. My mother… My father… and oh, no… My brother… My little brother… He's gone, as well, isn't he…?" Arthur shook his head. "What did I do?" he questioned shakily.

He was on the verge of a panic attack. He sat up, then put his head between his legs as he sat on the edge of the bed. He'd had panic attacks before as a child, and this technique almost always worked to calm him down. He was still shaking his head a little, rocking back and forth slightly.

"I am sorry, Arthur," he said quietly, rubbing soothing circles over his back. So that was it. Arthur had done it. He'd just stopped himself from remembering… He wondered why, of course, as anyone would in his situation. What had driven him? He worried at his lip, as he tended to do when he was stressed. It wasn't a very good habit, but it helped in a way.

Arthur sniffled. "W-What is wrong with me…?" he questioned again. He knew what had happened. He remembered the fire. He just didn't remember exactly how everything had gone. He just knew that his family was dead, and that he'd killed them in a fire. Not that that wasn't horrible enough on it's own… The hand at his back calmed him slightly, and his breathing evened out. He shakily sat up, still making sure that his hair covered the scar over his face.

"I… I do not know," Francis admitted. He stared at the far wall, blinking slowly as he puzzled it out. "You… You did somet'ing, and you suppressed ze memory, and everyt'ing telling you what you did, you ignored, and yet… Well, I guess ze really t'ing we need to figure out is why? Why did you do zat? Was it an accident or…?" He shrugged a shoulder, thinking hard. What could it be… What could it be?

Something clicked in Arthur's head. Maybe it was something Francis said, or did, but it made him break out into a huge grin. The expression did not at all go with the drying tears on his face. He stared at the doctor for a moment.

"Arthur didn't do it," he said, fire in his eyes. He shook his head and laughed. "Arthur is too weak to like things like that. His family attachment amused me for a long time, but this was the perfect thing to break him." His eyes looked completely wild. This wasn't the same person that the Frenchman had been talking to a moment ago.

The doctor looked over at the man beside him, brow furrowing. All of a sudden, he was grinning back. "Eureka! Split Personality Disorder!" he stated. He resisted the urge to pat himself on the back. "Alright, sir, 'o am I talking to?" he wondered, setting his elbow on his knee and his head in the palm of his hand. "You do 'ave a name, of course?"

The man smiled and laid back on the bed with his hands behind his head. "England," he said, confidently. From what it seemed, this part of Arthur was much more sadistic, and uncaring about anyone but himself. The only other person he cared for was Arthur, and he only cared to cause him pain. In the past few weeks, he hadn't shown himself. Then again, the switches rarely happened, so it was hard to figure out what was wrong with him.

"England? As in ze country? Mmm… But ze English are so much different zan you," he observed, making a face. "Alright, England, why would you kill Arthur's family? Why do you delight in tormenting 'im? What do you get out of it?" He inspected his nails. "Are you ze one 'o scratches your wrists?"

He blinked. "Why does anyone enjoy causing another pain?" he questioned. "I simply do. It is most likely psychological, but you're supposed to be the professional in that area. So, you tell me. I like seeing him in pain, emotional or otherwise, even if we do share the same body. He doesn't know about me, though. Only I know of him. …and yes, I injured his wrists."

"'Ow can you injure 'is wrists if 'e is in control?" he questioned. "Zere are different reasons for sadism, but in your case, considering you are an alternate personality, you popped up due to somet'ing in 'is past as a coping response. Your sadism is ze result of Arthur's inability to exact vengeance on ze aggressor of 'is past, and so you lash out, causing 'urt because zat is ze only reason you exist."

England cocked his head slightly. "Hm. That may be true. Though, I've never looked into it as much as you have." He thought for a moment, and then smirked. "Who ever said that he was the one in control? Yes… He is the foundation personality, but I have free range." He had a wide grin on his face, amused by how excited Francis seemed to be getting by figuring this entire thing out.

He shrugged gently. "You are contented by feeling dominance in a relationship, and considering ze only relationship you 'ave is wit' Arthur, you use 'im. In short, you are a petty, insecure bully. Your 'urt ot'er people because of your own insecurities. 'Ow childish." He wrinkled his nose, as though the mere thought of it was mildly repulsive. "Honestly, I've seen grade school students 'o are more mature."

England shrugged himself. "I guess you're the professional, aren't you?" He laughed. "I don't give two shits. Arthur and I may be different, but we are the same person. He is me, and therefore, I am free to use him all I want." He rolled his eyes slightly. "Do you want to know the most satisfying feeling? The feeling I got when I looked into the eyes of his mother and father, who knew they were going to die by their own son's hands. Oh… and that little boy. He was so confused. I stayed to watch them die in the flames. That's the only reason he got hurt," he explained, moving his hair out of the way to show Francis the scar.

Francis reached up and brushed the hair away, looking at the scar with detached indifference. Suddenly, his head was colliding with the Brit's, knocking him back. He sat back, blinking. Headbutts were something he didn't do very often anymore, but he couldn't deny that they were very effective.

England allowed Francis to stare at the scar, not at all phased by anyone looking at it as Arthur would've been. His eyes went wide as the man brought his head back, and the blow to his head swallowed him in darkness. He went limp against the bed, his breathing relaxed. Well, the Englishman hadn't seen that coming.

His lip quirked slightly. It worked with knocking out spies and hysteric soldiers in the military, who said it couldn't be applied here? He went to the clipboard, glancing over it. He'd have to make some notes and bring this case to the board of directors. There was potential here… Simply getting rid of the personality permanently would cure the man. He glanced over at the patient.

Arthur remained asleep. From that day on, they made a lot of progress, even putting him on the correct medication. He grew close to Francis, as his doctor, and friend. After about six months, he was released. It was one of the happiest days of his life. Of course, he was still dealing with the loss and guilt of what had happened to his family, but he was learning to live with it. He ended up writing his story, and earning a decent living from it. Though he mostly lived in seclusion because of his scars, he always kept Francis as a close friend. He was the only one he had, and the Frenchman was the one who had saved him… Then only one who had been able to figure out what had happened.

It had been another long day at work. Francis got home late, a dozen files packed into his briefcase, maybe more. He unlocked the door and tossed his keys in a bowl on the side table by the entrance and kicked the door closed behind him. He yawned, putting a hand over his mouth. He needed coffee… He needed a whole pot of it. He needed to get through these files, as well.

Someone smirked from behind the shadows. There was a small /click/ as the door locked. The man came up slowly behind Francis, and put the cold metal of the gun against his head. Another click sounded through the silent room.

"Now, now… You really didn't think you would ever, truly be rid of me, did you?" England whispered in the other's ear. "He loves you." A shot rang through the house.

The End.


End file.
